


a change of routine

by elloquial



Series: elloquial's lockdown fix-it [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels Can Sense Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale Can Sense Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Living Together, Lockdown Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Quarantine, everything. everything i wanted to put in it. is in it, including some hcs abt the whole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elloquial/pseuds/elloquial
Summary: in which crowley comes to the bookshop for quarantine and they settle into a routine together, until aziraphale fucks it up (for the better). followsstarved for (your) companyas promised, the inevitable "close quarters makes them confess their love" sequel, with an extra scoop of "as much domesticity and Relatable Lockdown Content as I could justify"!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: elloquial's lockdown fix-it [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749652
Comments: 11
Kudos: 194





	a change of routine

Crowley falls asleep partway through the second film. They hadn’t drunk much, with Crowley joining Aziraphale in switching from wine to cocoa early on. But even sober, the demon’s body is apparently in enough of a rhythm that it craves slumber around this time every night. Or he just feels safe enough to indulge the habit. Either way, Aziraphale finds it as charming as the last time Crowley had fallen asleep on him, this very human quirk of his friend’s corporation. 

As much as Aziraphale enjoys watching Crowley snooze beside him, he knows the demon can’t be comfortable in his current position. He’s still partly sitting up, limbs tangled in the quilt such that none of them are completely covered by it. When the credits roll on _High School Musical 2_ (highly entertaining, as Crowley had promised, if poorly written), he stands to give Crowley’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Crowley?” 

The demon jerks, eyes snapping open. Aziraphale watches his pupils narrow to slits, giving way to all that molten gold. “Hmmh?” 

“Sorry to startle you,” Aziraphale murmurs. He takes his hand away.

“Didn’t,” says Crowley, stretching. “Auugh, you didn’t. What’s’it?” He blinks up at the screen. “D’you want to move on to the next one?” 

“Hm?” asks Aziraphale, lost for a moment in the flex of Crowley’s arms out in front of him, in the little noise he makes as he settles. “Oh, no, I thought we might call it a night. I was wondering—would you like to head up to the bedroom?” 

Crowley’s gaze snaps back towards the angel’s face, then back at the screen, wide-eyed. “Uh,” he says, sounding bewildered. “Would I—me? To your bedroom?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale laughs. “I just thought, well, I don’t sleep, so what’s the use in it sitting empty? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable there? With...pillows, and whatnot?”

“Oh. Oh!” exclaims Crowley, rolling up into a proper sitting position. “Uh, yeah, I s’pose.” He scrubs a hand over his face before looking up. “Are you sure, though? I’m perfectly fine to kip here. Or, I mean, I don’t even _need_ to sleep, really—”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale interrupts. “I insist.” Crowley keeps on looking hesitant, and the angel huffs, fond. “You know I rarely sleep, my dear. If that changes, I assure you, I will let you know. Until then, my bed is yours.” 

Crowley raises his palms in surrender. “Okay.”

“Right,” says Aziraphale, with a pleased little wiggle. “I’ll show you up, then?”

He leads Crowley upstairs, points out the bathroom, the bedroom, the hall closet full of extra linens, all of it mostly for appearances. Until now. He opens the bedroom door for Crowley and ushers him inside. It’s a funny picture, his all-black garb against the soft brown comforter, light oak furniture, and the weathered spines of many, many books. Aziraphale wants it painted, framed. 

“I—I brought your things up,” the angel says instead, handing Crowley the black leather bag. 

Crowley turns to accept it, looking truly sleepy now. “Thanks,” he says, then succumbs to a jaw-cracking yawn. “Ach. Sorry. Goodnight, angel.” 

Aziraphale tries not to smile too wide at how much nicer those words sound here and now than they had a few days ago. “Goodnight, Crowley,” he says. 

* * *

Aziraphale expects Crowley to be the sleeping-in type. Their outings tended to be in the evenings, and Crowley seemed to luxuriate in his rest, when he got it. But whether it’s his routine or the result of his new surroundings, Crowley is up around eight. Aziraphale knows this because a steaming cup of tea appears at his elbow around eight fifteen.

“Oh, thank you, my dear!” He pries his hands from the book he’s been glued to for the past several hours and wraps them gratefully around the warm mug. “How did you sleep?” 

Crowley settles onto the sofa. He’s got his own mug, Aziraphale notices, teabag still steeping. The heathen. But Aziraphale’s is teabag-free, the precise shade of the proper amount of milk. Just how he likes it. 

“Depends. Will you be amused if I say ‘like an angel’?” asks Crowley, smirking.

Aziraphale very politely does not roll his eyes. “No,” he lies, but something in his expression has Crowley’s smirk creeping wider. He’s got one brow raised above the shades, which are back in their usual place. 

“‘course not. Fine, then. I slept fine.”

“Good,” says Aziraphale, sipping his tea. “I’m glad to hear it.” There is sweetness on his tongue. The perfect amount. “Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“Why have you got your shades on?” Aziraphale asks. “There aren’t any humans around to be nosy.” 

Crowley’s jaw shifts like he’s biting at the inside of his cheek. Aziraphale keeps on looking at him. He knows perfectly well why Crowley’s got the shades on, but he senses an opening and feels like he might get away with prodding at it. Pushing through it. 

“Just like the way they look, angel,” says Crowley, but he reaches up and pulls them off anyway, looks down as he folds them into a jeans pocket that swallows them into nothing. He looks up, eyes guarded now that lenses can’t do it for him. “But I suppose you’re right.” 

Aziraphale hums, pleased, and offers Crowley a smile. He returns his eyes to the book. “So,” he says, attempting nonchalance. “Any plans for the day?” 

Crowley shrugs. “None that I’ve come up with yet. Why, have you got some?” 

“Well, I thought perhaps some Flaubert, after this,” he says, nodding down to his current volume. “But nothing set in stone.” 

“Right,” says Crowley, and they sit in companionable silence for a while. Aziraphale reads; Crowley fiddles with his phone for a while, then switches on the television and channel surfs at a courteously low volume. They drain their tea. 

At around noon, Crowley switches off the television and flops back with a frustrated groan that Aziraphale can tell is mostly for show. 

“Bored?” Aziraphale asks.

“Dreadfully,” Crowley grouses, the picture of petulance. He rolls his head to face Aziraphale. “Got any books to recommend?”

* * *

They settle into a routine of sorts. 

Crowley brings him tea to let him know it’s morning. They are quiet through the early hours. Crowley takes a liking to mystery novels, plays, and more or less everything Aziraphale picks out for him. Sometimes, he even deigns to let Aziraphale read to him from the angel’s favorite poetry collections. 

They watch TV, mostly news; Aziraphale sends out as many miracles as he thinks he can get away with to alleviate the suffering getting so much air time. Crowley does the same; subtly, at first, but less so each day, as if realizing the futility of hiding his goodness from the angel he’d been doing blessings for for centuries. They nibble at the sweets in the pile on the coffee table, which miraculously don’t send them into sugar comas unless they consent to it. (Crowley does, on occasion). 

Crowley stops wearing the glasses entirely. Even after the first few days, Aziraphale feels a little thrill go through him every time Crowley’s bare eyes meet his own. He has always found them beautiful, of course.

Their afternoons hold more variety. Aziraphale shelves the books from one table and dumps a puzzle out onto it, hoping to tempt Crowley into joining him. He does, eventually, though apparently with mischievous intent, for when they’re finished with _A Sunday Afternoon on La Grande Jatte_ , the painting contains quite a few characters Aziraphale does not recognize from the original. This includes a group of children at play that bear a striking resemblance to Adam and his friends; a suspiciously familiar snake wrapped around one of the trees in the distance; and between them, a picnicking pair that are unmistakably Crowley and Aziraphale themselves. The little Crowley is looking straight out at the viewer, giving a cheeky wave.

“What?” asks Crowley, defensive at Aziraphale’s glare when he notices. “Oh, come on, I knew Seurat, he wouldn’t mind. I’d say I’ve improved it.” Privately, Aziraphale agrees. 

They try board games. Crowley’s impatient with chess; they’re quite well matched, and Aziraphale takes his sweet time pondering moves. Connect Four is _very_ fun, so long as they’re both drunk. The same is true of Pictionary. They play all manner of card games, and Crowley delights in Aziraphale’s utter lack of a poker face. Even when he’s being defeated so resoundly, Aziraphale finds himself in higher spirits than ever before. They’d never had the time to indulge in such recreation together. Before, they’d always been apart long enough that they’d spend the entirety of every meeting playing catch-up. Even as their encounters grew more frequent, none ever seemed long enough to engage in such...fun. Not when they could fill a night with talk so easily, and both leave so content with it. But the games are nice. Really, exquisitely nice. 

Except for the video games. Crowley miracles them some consoles, steers him clear of all the shoot-em-ups, and runs through what feels like every other game ever made. Aziraphale doesn’t like a single one. 

“They’re too...flashy! There’s simply too much to keep track of. And they move ever so quickly, I can’t keep up.”

Crowley arches a brow. “ _Wii Bowling_ is too flashy?” 

Aziraphale crosses his arms. “You know what I mean,” he says. 

Crowley does. “You’ll like ones with good storylines. Or social simulation.” He pouts. “But they’re all best played single-player.” 

“Oh, then we don’t have to, my dear. We can go back to—”

A snap switches out the controls in Aziraphale’s hands. “Come off it, angel. You’ll like this.”

Aziraphale likes Animal Crossing _very_ much. Even more once Crowley shows him how to use Friend Codes.

Sometimes Aziraphale bakes; sometimes Crowley helps him. Sometimes Aziraphale reads through the afternoon, and Crowley does as he pleases, often curling up as a snake on a sunny patch of miraculously broadened windowsill. He’s always close by; they rarely stray from one another’s sight. Aziraphale wonders if that’s purposeful, on Crowley’s part, but tries not to put too much stock in it. He dislikes when Crowley disappears upstairs, though. On one memorable occasion, Aziraphale startles out of _Sense and Sensibility_ to Crowley’s shouting and rushes upstairs in a blind panic, only to burst in on the demon cradling his baby monitor and looking sheepish.

“Told you I was going to keep them in line,” says Crowley. 

Aziraphale remembers the plants. “So you did,” he says, and shuts the door. After a moment, he can hear Crowley pick up his discipline in a low, threatening voice that makes Aziraphale want to laugh and shiver in equal parts.

Regardless of how they spend their days, the evenings always seem to play out the same way. They’ll order in and have dinner together, Aziraphale mostly eating, Crowley mostly watching. And then they’ll retire to the sofa and watch something together, usually of Crowley’s choosing. Although Aziraphale begins coming to the table with suggestions of his own; Crowley’s making quite the cinephile of him. 

After a movie or two, they’ll usually bid each other goodnight, and Crowley’ll head upstairs. He hasn’t fallen asleep on the sofa, not since that first night. But halfway through _The Jane Austen Book Club,_ he does, slumping sideways in increments until his head comes to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

It’s only then Aziraphale realizes how close they’ve been sitting. When had that come about? When they started sharing the quilt, he supposed. Crowley’d grown sick of the angel tucking just his cold feet under the end of it, and started simply draping it over them both. It was convenient. Cozy. 

And so was this. Aziraphale could wake him, could send him off to bed, but he finds he doesn’t want to. Not unlike on the zoom call. Not unlike the last time, here, if he’s being truthful. He stops himself from thinking about the reasons for that and focuses on adjusting their positions. Slowly, so slowly, he leans back against the armrest, angles Crowley so that he’s resting against his chest. The demon doesn’t wake. 

Aziraphale presses play on the film and watches it to the end. As the credits roll, he wills his corporation to sleep as well.

* * *

They don’t talk about it.

It doesn’t seem like a thing to be talked about. Crowley wakes him at 8:15, with the perfect cup of tea, and they go about life as usual. 

They’re _close_ , so close, and it’s wonderful and domestic and everything Aziraphale had ever dreamed it could be, almost. And neither of them has exploded yet, or started a screaming argument, or really done anything at all to disrupt the easy harmony that they’ve fallen into. Aziraphale is holding his breath; he feels as though Crowley is, too, although he could very well be imagining that. But he convinces himself this is alright, this level of closeness. If Crowley minded, he would say something. And he hasn’t.

So they bake together and read together and visit Anathema in Animal Crossing, and occasionally Crowley falls asleep on him. Aziraphale stops sleeping along with him. He just drifts, relishing the warmth of Crowley at his side, trying simultaneously to savor it and to convince himself that it’s not something he’s fated to lose. 

* * *

It’s laughable, the way things come to a head. 

They’ve been living together about a month when it happens, their routine well-established and utterly wonderful. Crowley’s just startled out of a doze and risen from the sofa, stretching. It’s a familiar sight. Aziraphale pauses the movie they've been watching.

“Night, angel,” Crowley says, heading for the stairs. 

“Goodnight, Crowley. I love you.” 

Crowley freezes. Aziraphale wonders why for about half a second before he realizes what he’s said. What he’s done.

They’re both so still, Aziraphale wonders briefly whether one of them’s stopped time again by reflex. He wouldn’t mind it; he could live in this moment a while, the last moment of the familiar, the last moment before whatever’s going to happen next. There’s an single instant when Crowley’s hand tightens on the bannister and Aziraphale thinks he’s going to leave, going to let this pass without comment. But then Crowley turns ninety degrees, so Aziraphale can see him in profile, and asks, “What?” 

Aziraphale swallows. “Um,” he begins, and hovers there a moment, stuck. 

There’s a sloshing sound, and the bottle of merlot that Crowley had mostly drained that evening is suddenly full again, as though Crowley’s expended an extra miracle to sober up all at once. Aziraphale does the same, the snap of it clumsy.

“D’you mean...erm. What—what _do_ you mean?” It’s the last out Crowley’s ever going to give him, and goddamnit (yes, blasphemy _intended_ ), Aziraphale’s not going to take it. He bluster on about platonic _philia_ , he could claim an innate angelic love for all things, but he finds he doesn’t want to. And for the first time in many years, he doesn’t stop himself from thinking about why.

“Everything.” 

Crowley, who had begun to turn away, now turns to face him completely. He’s wearing the same bewildered expression he does every time Aziraphale beats him at cards. “What?”

“I mean everything,” says Aziraphale, almost giddy at saying it, _saying it_ , after all this time. “Everything. I love you in every way. Every single form of love I’ve ever felt, in the fullness of time. From the people around me, from the non-people around me, and a few forms I’m fairly certain I’ve invented myself...I feel them all. For you.” 

He clears his throat. Crowley’s staring at him, eyes wide, pupils huge in the low light. He still looks bewildered.

This is it. This is the _too close_ they’ve been hurtling towards. Aziraphale’s lightness evaporates as everything inside him crests, floats, and then starts falling. He rushes on. “I didn’t always, or at least, I couldn’t admit it, was—was too afraid to, ahm, to spoil it all, but. I’ve done it now.” He feels a traitorous wetness at the corner of his eye and looks down, wipes it away as discreetly as he can manage. “I know I’ve rather...missed the window, as it were. I’m sorry, you know, of course this doesn’t have to change—”

“Missed the—Aziraphale, _what_ are you on about?” Crowley unfreezes. Aziraphale feels the sofa dip as Crowley sits down beside him. The demon coaxes the hand away from his face and replaces it with one of his own, pressing gently until Aziraphale looks up at him, wiping away a few more rebellious tears. Aziraphale closes his eyes and savors the touch despite himself. It’s shaky. “I’m not an angel of the Lord, so, correct me if I’m wrong,” says Crowley, very slowly. “But certainly ‘all love’ must include...the kinds I feel for you?” He looks at him with impossible kindness, with the gentlest concern, and strokes the cheek below his thumb.

It is Aziraphale’s turn to be bewildered. “You—but you don’t!” he cries. 

Crowley’s hands fall away from his face. He looks torn open, and it stops Aziraphale’s heart. His voice goes low and pleading. “I know you think demons can’t. But I...angel, I swear to you—”

Aziraphale shakes his head, horrified, guilt creeping up his throat. “No, no, my dear, it’s not that, of _course_ I don’t think that, it’s—” He swallows a sob. “You gave me so many chances, and I was too cowardly to take them, and I don’t...I can’t feel your love anymore.” He reaches up and wraps a hand around Crowley’s wrist, says the thing that’s been weighing on him for decades. “You gave up on me.” Regret threatens to swallow him up. “And you had every right to!”

Crowley’s eyebrows draw together, then shoot towards his hairline. “Oh!” he exclaims, a smile spreading inexplicably across his face. “Oh, no, I— Aziraphale, I blocked that from you! After the holy water, I—so you wouldn’t be uncomfortable.” He gestures wildly with his free hand as he speaks, the words tumbling out of him. “Sort of like a ward, in reverse, keeping love in instead of anything else out. Oh, don’t cry, let me show you…”

“You did _what_?” says Aziraphale, stricken, but Crowley’s got his face screwed up like he’s wrenching something open deep down inside. The angel can sense it, now that Crowley’s told him, now that he’s messing with it. An arcane force around his friend beyond which he can’t sense much of anything. A bubble about to be punctured. He’s dizzy with the realization. “Crowley, that had to have _hurt_ you—”

Crowley gasps. The bubble bursts. Aziraphale can feel the flow of it; can feel how Crowley tries to open himself just a little, like a spillway on a dam; can feel how he loses control almost immediately; can feel fifty years of Crowley’s love rushing towards him in one great wave. 

It crashes against him with two simultaneous sensations. The first is the expected smack of a tsunami. It sends him reeling, lights his insides on fire, starts his nose bleeding. It’s an occult suckerpunch made out of every type of love Aziraphale knows, all of it Crowley’s, all of it for _him._ He fears he might burst. He wants to lose himself in it. He wants to drown.

The second is gentle, sweet, protecting him from the first. It’s a liferaft, cradling him through the waves of feeling that buffet him, quickly soothing the fire inside to a pleasant full-body warmth. He is lit up, broken open, seen, known, loved, loved, _loved_ —

He collapses forward into Crowley’s arms, weeping with how good it is, at how long they’ve waited, at the relief of sending his own love back out to Crowley, their two waves crashing together in the middle, refracting into divine resultants, over and over again.

“Are you okay,” Crowley croaks, and Aziraphale feels hot tears on the back of his neck, feels Crowley’s shoulder trembling where his face is pressed into it. “‘M sorry, angel, I didn’t mean to do it all at once—” 

“I know,” Aziraphale assures him. He raises his head. “I’m fine, I’m wonderful, you—oh, my _dear_.” He reaches up and takes Crowley’s face between his hands. The tears in his golden eyes nearly do Aziraphale in. “My darling,” he whispers, overwhelmed. He draws close, too close, almost close enough. “May I?” 

Crowley gives the barest of nods, and Aziraphale kisses him. It is a soft press of lips, fumbling and shaky with the suddenness of it all. Aziraphale feels as though he may vibrate apart. Then Crowley makes a sound like he’s in pain and wraps his arms around Aziraphale, pulls him in tight and holds him there. The kiss deepens, and he tastes salt, and iron, and sweetness; the perfect amount.

Aziraphale’s smiling into it, they both are; he slides one hand up into Crowley’s hair and the other smooths down his neck, touching, holding. It’s been an age since Aziraphale has done this, but he’s quite certain that the rhythm they create is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. Crowley kisses like he means it, like it’s a language he’s speaking; Aziraphale gives as good as he gets.

He pulls back and Crowley chases him, just a little, before blinking his eyes open. They’re still close enough that Aziraphale can study the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks as they flutter. He’s looking down at Aziraphale with an expression of utmost wonder, and Aziraphale knows his face is a perfect match. “Crowley,” he breathes, pressing their foreheads together. Then he remembers. “Are _you_ alright?” 

“Never better,” says Crowley, sounding dazed.

“Well, you got extremely lucky, then,” says Aziraphale, straightening, suddenly cross. “What on _earth_ were you thinking, keeping all of that built up inside? You could’ve been discorporated! You could’ve been questioned by Hell about it, if they’d noticed! You could’ve—”

“I had it under control! I wouldn’t have let any of that happen, I—hey.” Crowley takes each of Aziraphale’s hands from where they are clenched at his sides, uncurls the fists and weaves their fingers together. “ _Look_ at me, angel. I’m fine.” 

Aziraphale stares down at their hands, still tearful. “You must have been so miserable,” he whispers. 

Crowley scoffs. “Nah. Still got to see you, didn’t I?” 

Warmth blooms impossibly brighter in Aziraphale’s chest, and he squeezes Crowley’s hands in his own. He has so much to make up for. “I’m so sorry to have made you feel that this was something you had to hide, o-or protect me from. It was not then, nor will it ever be. I was just too foolish to…” He shakes his head, choked, waiting for the words to come. “I was so afraid of having your love only see it taken away,” he says. “But I went and drove you to do exactly that.”

Crowley shakes his head. “You didn’t. That was my choice,” he says, voice firm. “But if it’ll make you feel better...I forgive you.” He shrugs like he’s said something silly. “For whatever that’s worth.”

Aziraphale winds his arms around him and, when Crowley doesn’t protest, pulls him snugly into an embrace. “It’s worth a great deal,” he says, pressing a kiss to the sigil beside Crowley’s ear. 

“Right,” says the demon, after a while. “So. What...happens now?”

Aziraphale pulls back. “Well,” he says, thoughtful. “I should like to kiss some more, if you are amenable.” He delights in the upward twitch of Crowley’s eyebrows, the pleased flush of his cheeks. “And then I’d like to finish this movie, and for you to fall asleep here with me.”

Crowley nods. He presses his lips together like he’s afraid of what he’s going to ask next. “And tomorrow?”

“Well, I expect tomorrow will be much the same,” Aziraphale says, but he knows that’s not what Crowley’s asking. He knows what he wants to happen next, doesn’t even have to think about it. “And when the lockdown is lifted, I thought perhaps you could go collect the plants, and anything else you want brought over, and we could find a space for them here?” He rushes on before Crowley has the chance to react, speaking quickly, as if this is simple, as if these ideas are brand new and not fantasies he’s had for longer than he’d ever admit. “Or we could relocate somewhere bigger, if it suits us, someplace with outdoor garden beds, would you like that? Real estate in—” 

Crowley cuts him off with an expert kiss, open-mouthed and eager. He pulls back up when it breaks. “Yes.”

He’s so overjoyed, Aziraphale has to think a moment before he can parse that response. He cocks his head. “Yes to which part?”

“To anything. Everything,” Crowley says, his grin huge. He laughs, a bright sound that makes Aziraphale thrum like the music of the spheres. “I mean, we’ll have plenty of time stuck in here to figure it out. What better is there to do?”

“Oh, I imagine we’ll find a number of other ways to occupy ourselves for the duration,” says Aziraphale, and tugs him down again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i wasn't kidding abt high school musical y'all
> 
> i had so much fun writing this, thanks to all who commented so kindly on the last one!! it really motivated me to keep writing. i love love love the "aziraphale senses love, crowley senses lust" stuff, so i was excited to share my personal hc that crowley keeps that shit locked up after the 1967 incident. i'd love to hear what folks think of that tbh
> 
> also sorry so sappy i really went for it in that confession scene huh


End file.
